


Sanguis Foederis Crassior

by shnuffeluv



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Eventual Queerplatonic Relationships, Flirting, Gen, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD John, Quasiplatonic Relationships, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, literally everyone is in this, this is gonna be long just warning you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/shnuffeluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the "gay or not gay" debate that has taken London, no, <em>the world</em> by storm. Little do they know, they are in a happy and devoted relationship, though not in the way everyone expects them to be. Canon-compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was having a nightmare.

Now, that wasn’t odd in and of itself. Far from it, actually. What was odd was the fact that he had slept this long without waking up. “Watson!” someone yelled. And again. John looked around but couldn’t find who was calling for him. He bolted upright at the sound of an explosion and looked around blindly. As his flat came into focus, he blinked several times, before falling back against his pillow. The thin object did little to cushion John’s head from the matress springs underneath the sheets. He covered his eyes with an arm. It wasn’t real. It was never real, but it always felt that way.

He started crying. Also, unfortunately, not uncommon. He let himself drown in the overwhelming emotion for only so long, before he sat up and wiped his cheeks free from tear tracks. He stared at the wall across from his bed, his mind blank from any thought or emotion. The shell that housed John Watson did nothing for seconds, minutes, or was it hours? He didn’t bother to keep track of how long he had been sitting there. When daylight starts to peek in through the windows, John gets ready for the day. He makes himself a mug of tea and grabs an apple with a questionable past. How long had it been since he went shopping? It wasn’t important.

With nothing better to do, John pulled out his laptop from his top desk drawer, glancing at the pistol hidden beneath it. 30 seconds. That’s all it would take. Just 30 seconds to take off the safety, and eat the barrel. Then it would all be over. But not today. He turned on his laptop and went to his blog, staring at the blank page. No words came to him. They never came to him anymore.

John closed his laptop with a sigh. He had to go to Ella’s in an hour anyway, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to do but get ready. He limped to his dresser and took off his dressing gown and pyjamas, carefully putting on day clothes, minding his shoulder and his leg, both of which would throb if he moved the wrong way. Dressed, he grabbed his cane and limped outside to find a cab. It wasn’t easy to get one with a bum leg and a shoulder that hated to be moved, but he couldn’t walk to his therapist’s.

After what seemed like forever a cab stopped for him, and he gave the cabbie the practice’s address, checking his phone for any messages from Harry. She must have been really drunk last night, because he hadn’t gotten a peep from her since 2 this morning when he had convinced her to get one of her friends to drive her home because she thought she was sober enough to drive. She hadn’t even taken her own car to the pub!

The cab pulled up outside the building, and John wearily paid the cabbie, trudging into the building and nodding at the receptionist as he signed in. He thumbed through the magazines in the waiting room, not actually reading them but pretending to have something to do, for the sake of appearances and so Ella wouldn’t nag at him quite so much to do something. She loved to do that, he found.

A woman walked out of Ella’s office and John tried not to envy the easy smile that came to her face. He recognized her, someone who was on medication that actually worked for her, and she was improving quickly.

John had been stuck in his cycle for months now, and there was no change.

Ella walked out of her office and smiled at him. “Hello, John. No drinks today?”

John felt heat rise in his cheeks. “It was one time I forgot to call. One time,” he muttered, standing up and shaking her hand before following her into her office.

They sat in silence for a minute before Ella prompted, “How’s your blog going?”

John internally winced. “Yeah, good. Erm, very good.” He hated the stupid thing.

“You haven’t written a word, have you?” Ella asked with a knowing look.

John pointed to Ella’s file of him. “You just wrote ‘still has trust issues,’” he said with a small amount of indignance.

“And you read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?”

John smiled guiltily, but didn’t feel remotely apologetic. This woman should not have to know anything about him. He didn’t understand why he even continued coming here; it did nothing to alleviate the nightmares, the need for adrenaline, the limp. It did nothing to help him.

Ella sat forward and sighed. “John, you’re a soldier, and it’s gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”

John bit back a laugh. Oh, dear, she was serious, wasn’t she? He didn’t smile, didn’t outwardly show _any_ emotion. How was he supposed to react to this? Didn’t she understand? “Nothing happens to me.”

Ella swallowed back a reply and let the words hang in the air for a few minutes before trying to pick up the conversation again. John was having none of it, answering the bare minimum but nothing more. If he didn’t find something to keep him distracted, he was fairly certain he would kill himself within the month. And no one would miss him when he was gone. Harry would notice his absence, but she was always too drunk to care. Ella merely got paid to sit and listen to him talk. No one cared one way or another if he left the world a bit before his time.

Once therapy was done, John decided to have a walk around the local parts of London. He could use the stretch in his muscles, his physical therapist said it would help him, and besides, sooner or later he’d need to get fresh groceries. This was just condensing that into one big step. He walked through the park, leaning on his cane more than he probably should, and thinking that maybe he hadn’t made the best choice when deciding to do this. He passed a man on a bench who followed his path with his head. He probably reminded the man of someone, he tended to have that effect on people. “John!” the man called out. Like it was actually John who the man was calling to. “John Watson!” Well, what do you know…

John turned around to face the man, trying to place him from somewhere. “Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together,” the man explained.

The pieces clicked into place and John shook his head and gave the closest thing he could to a smile in recognition. He shook Mike’s hand. “Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello, hi.”

Mike grinned and looked down at himself. “Yeah, I know, I got fat.”

John shook his head and grimaced, hoping he could sound believable. “No, no!”

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?” Mike asked, looking John over.

Seriously? “I got shot,” John said simply.

“Oh,” Mike said. “Erm, would you like some coffee? I know this good place not too far from here?”

“Sure,” John said, shrugging. He didn’t have anything better to do.

They got coffees and walked to the nearest bench they could find, at the outskirts of the park. John, not wanting to seem disinterested in seeing Mike again, asked, “Are you still at Bart’s, then?”

Mike nodded. “Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. Man, I hate them!” John laughed and Mike joined in. They both knew what it was like to be an eager young med student. “What about you? Just staying in town ’til you get yourself sorted?”

John scoffed. “I can’t afford London on an Army pension!”

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know,” Mike said, looking John over again, as if to make sure he was real.

“Well, I’m not _the_ John Watson,” John said with discomfort radiating from him.

His hand started to shake and John switched the coffee before it could spill, trying to squeeze the tremor out. Mike glances at him. “Couldn’t Harry help?”

John breathed a single laugh. “Yeah, like _that’s_ gonna happen!”

Mike shrugged. “I dunno…get a flatshare, or something?”

John shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, who would want me for a flatmate?”

Mike chuckled and John shot him a look. Mike shook his head. “What?” John asked.

“You’re the second person to tell that to me today,” Mike informed him.

John blinked, trying to determine if he was serious. If he was, there might just be something to live for after all. “Who was the first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the dialogue in the show goes to Arianne DeVere, in every chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock unzipped the body bag, sniffing. He didn’t always care for the smell of formaldehyde, but at the moment it was a comforting scent, the smell of a science experiment about to happen. “How fresh?” he asked the woman in the room.

Molly Hooper walked over. “Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice.”

Sherlock zipped the bag up again and turned to Molly with a smile. “Right. We’ll start with the riding crop.”

Molly nodded and prepared one of the tables for the body as Sherlock took out his weapon of choice for the day from a small duffel bag by the side of the wall. Molly walked out of the room and Sherlock approached the body, raising the riding crop and bringing it down with a  _ swish _ onto the body, where it snapped against the bare flesh. He was dimly aware of Molly watching in the observation room, flinching as he brought the riding crop down. Nevertheless he continued to flog the body until he was hunched over and breathless. Molly walked in with a friendly smile. “So! Bad day, was it?”

Sherlock ignored her attempt at a joke. “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”

“Listen, I was wondering: maybe later, when you’re finished…” Molly started.

Sherlock looked at her and did a double-take, frowning. “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

Molly froze in place before responding, “I, er, I refreshed it a bit.”

Sherlock looked her over, realized she was trying to flirt with him, and immediately lost interest. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee,” Molly said, her eyes not leaving Sherlock.

Ugh. He looked at her and smiled. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.”

He walked out of the room and barely heard Molly’s quiet, “Okay.”

Sherlock shook his head. There was nothing wrong with Molly, to be certain, but the sooner she realized she was barking up the wrong tree, the better. He went into the labs and started his final experiment of the day, when there was a knock at the door, and Mike Stamford came in with a man following behind him who muttered, “Bit different from my day.”

Mike chuckled and replied, “You’ve no idea.”

Interesting. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike quipped.

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said simply.

The man reached for his back pocket and brought out his phone. “Er, here. Use mine.”

Sherlock perked up. Not just interesting. Fascinating. “Oh. Thank you.”

As he walks toward the man, Mike makes himself known again. “An old friend of mine. John Watson.”

Sherlock flipped up the top of the phone revealing the keypad, and turned slightly away from John, feigning disinterest. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John frowned, and he can feel Mike smile behind him. “Sorry?” John asked.

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again.

He looked up at John before turning back to the phone. John looked to Mike but the man said nothing. “Afghanistan, sorry, how did you know…?”

Before John could finish his question, Molly walked in. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He handed John back his phone and took the coffee, examining Molly’s face. “What happened to the lipstick?”

“It wasn’t working for me,” Molly said with a nervous smile.

“Really? I thought it was a huge improvement. You’re mouth’s too small now,” Sherlock said, effectively dismissing her.

“…Okay.”

Molly left and Sherlock turned back to the task at hand. “How do you feel about the violin?”

John looked around the room before frowning. “I’m sorry, what?”

Sherlock went to the computer and typed up the results of his experiment. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He glances at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

When he smiles, John turned to Mike. “Oh, you…you told him about me?”

“Not a word,” Mike said with a smirk.

John turned back to Sherlock with a bemused frown. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

“ _ I _ did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap,” Sherlock said, shrugging on his coat.

John asked, “How  _ did _ you know about Afghanistan?”

Curious, then. That was good. Sherlock turned to John and began to walk past him. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John turned towards the door, and consequently Sherlock. “Is that it?”

Sherlock stopped and turned to John, a smirk threatening to break across his lips. This man was interesting. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go look at a flat?”

Sherlock glanced over to Mike. “Problem?” he asked, looking back at John.

John laughs, and turns to Mike, but the man offers no help. He turns back to Sherlock. “We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

All valid points. Sherlock examined him one last time before speaking. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him…possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid,” John shifted and Sherlock smirked. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Time for the final kill. Sherlock strolled out, before poking his head back in. “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B, Baker Street.” He winked and yelled out an “Afternoon!” towards the two.

He knew what would happen next. John would look at Mike and Mike would nod, saying, “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

But he didn’t have time for any business except getting his riding crop before he and Mycroft would undoubtedly face off over this potential flat mate. He got his riding crop, strode out of the hospital, and called a cab, giving the address for the Diogenes. He needed to speak to his brother.

* * *

Once at the Diogenes, Sherlock simply strode into Mycroft’s office. Mycroft scowled and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want this time, Sherlock?”

“I have found a potential flatmate,” Sherlock informed him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t intervene this time, I have a good feeling about this one and would rather not have him scared off.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Everything I do, I do for your protection--”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Really. Remember the time I found out your ‘potential flatmate’ was a drug dealer? Or the time that woman was lying about being able to afford the rent so she could engage with you romantically? Or maybe I have to go as far back as the Uni student who repeatedly stuck your head in the toilet, just because he hated having to dorm with you.”

Sherlock growled. “You know where you can stick your ‘concern’. Back off. This one is fine, he’s an Army doctor, for goodness’ sake!”

Mycroft turned interested. “What’s his name?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. You are  _ not _ researching this opportunity. I’ll make a decision on my own, thank you very much.”

He turned on his heel and stormed out, knowing full well Mycroft would find out about John, and it irritated him. Hopefully, John wouldn’t mind his brother if he decided to meddle again.

He thought his luck owed him that much after what he’d been going through recently.


	3. Chapter 3

John got home, more new questions running through his head at once than had run through his head in the past month combined. He sat down on his bed and fished around for his mobile, wondering what this Sherlock Holmes character had sent from his phone. The answer didn’t illuminate much.

If brother has green ladder arrest brother.

SH

John stared at the message, trying to discern something, anything, from the message. Finding nothing, he went to his laptop and looked up “Sherlock Holmes”. What he got was a mix of interesting results. Of course, there was the list of standard Facebook pages. But it was a blog that really caught his attention, called _The Science of Deduction_. He read through it, growing more and more incredulous. This man whom he had met at the hospital, provided it was the same man, claimed to be able to identify an airplane pilot by his left thumb? And could list 243 types of tobacco ash…why would anyone need to know such a thing?! He went back to the search results to see if he could find anything else, but the Facebook profiles weren’t matches to anyone he had seen, and there was no other promising result to get to know this new man in his life.

That settled it, then. He would just have to get to know this man by looking at a flat with him. Not the most promising scenario, to be sure. After all, this man could be a sociopath for all he was obsessed about crime on his blog, and murder in particular. But what if this was his one chance to find meaning in his life again? He was a doctor, he was supposed to help people. He could help Sherlock Holmes if it came down to that.

Right?

* * *

John limped down Baker Street, eager to find a place to sit down. His leg was throbbing as he had walked the entire way here from his flat. He couldn’t catch a cab today even if he could afford one. He walked up to the door and knocked as he heard a cab stop behind him and someone close the door. He turned, and there was Sherlock. “Hello,” the man said, paying the cab driver through the window. He thanked the cabbie and the driver moved on.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John said, holding out his hand.

“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock said, taking the proffered hand.

John looked around. “Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out,” Sherlock explained.

John started to feel a worry growing in the back of his mind. “Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?!”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, no, I ensured it.”

An elderly woman who John assumed was Mrs. Hudson opened the door and smiled. “Sherlock, hello.”

Sherlock hugged Mrs. Hudson briefly before turning halfway towards John. “Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson.”

“Hello,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“How are you?” John asked.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and gestured for John to join them. “Come in.”

“Thank you,” John said.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, growing impatient.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Hudson said, closing the door.

Sherlock went up the stairs quickly, but to John’s relief and slight embarrassment, waited to walk into the flat until John was up the stairs. Sherlock opened the door and John limped in. There were two arm chairs, a sofa, and a table with some chairs around it in the living room by way of furniture. There were boxes everywhere and…John really hoped that was not an actual human skull. “Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved right in.”

John said, “Just as soon as we get this rubbish cleaned out--oh.” He was mortified when he realized all of this “rubbish” was his potential flatmate’s possessions. He belatedly realized that being in the army may have gotten him used to too sparse surroundings. “So, this is all…?”

“Well, obviously, I can, er, straighten things up a bit…”

He went around tossing folders into boxes and put the mail on the mantelpiece with a knife. Which brought John back to a pressing issue…“That’s a skull,” John pointed out with his cane lifting to indicate the object in question.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock said quickly. “When I say ‘friend’…”

Mrs. Hudson walked in and turned to John. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John tried not to start. “Well of course we’ll be needing two,” he said, blinking.

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones,” she whispered.

John looked to Sherlock for support, but he was still too preoccupied to notice. Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen and tutted. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made!”

Finding no one was speaking to him anymore, John dropped into one of the armchairs, sighing quietly in relief. “I looked you up on the Internet last night,” he informed Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to him. “Anything interesting?”

“Found your website, _The Science of Deduction_.”

Sherlock smiled. “What did you think?”

John pulled a skeptical face and Sherlock’s smile dropped. “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrows. “Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

John wanted to shake his head in bewilderment, but held himself back. “How?”

Sherlock just smiled and turned away. Mrs. Hudson came toward the living room, reading the day’s newspaper. “What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

Sherlock looked out the window in thought. “Four. There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

A man with a shock of silver hair came into the room breathless and Sherlock asked, “Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

“This one did. Will you come?”

Sherlock considered. “WHo’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock grimaced. “He won’t work with me.”

“Well he won’t be your assistant!”

“I _need_ an assistant!” Sherlock insisted.

“Will you come?” the man asked.

“Not in a police car, I’ll be right behind.”

The man sighed. “Thank you.” Then he left.

Sherlock waited for the slam of the door below before leaping into the air. “Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady dear, not your housekeeper.”

“Something cold will do! John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

“Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “But you’re more the sitting down type, I can tell. I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

“ _S_ _crew_ my leg!” John yelled, before remembering where he was. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this… _thing_ …”

“I understand, dear, I’ve got a hip,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.”

“Just this once dear, I’m your landlady not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ‘em.”

“Not your housekeeper!” Mrs. Hudson called on her way out the door.

John picked up the newspaper and started to read when a voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor.”

“Yes.” John stood up and turned to face Sherlock.

“Any good?”

“ _Very_ good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths,” Sherlock considered.

“Mm. Yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

John nodded. “Yes, of course. Enough for…a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Wanna see some more?” Sherlock offered.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” John sighed.

Sherlock lead John down the stairs and John called, “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. Off out.”

“Both of you?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock turned back to her. “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” He kissed her on the cheek.

Mrs. Hudson tutted. “Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent!”

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!” He walked outside hurriedly and hailed a cab. “Taxi!”


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t know John kept looking at him, but rather that he didn’t want to answer his questions just yet. He cleared his e-mail and confirmed he had no texts before the glances became too much. “Okay, you’ve got questions,” he said with a sigh.

“Yeah, where are we going?”

“Crime scene. Next?” Sherlock asked.

“Who are you? What do you do?”

“What do you think?” Time to see how this Army doctor held up.

“I’d say private detective…”

“But?”

“…But the police don’t go to private detectives,” John finished.

Sherlock smiled. “I’m a  _ consulting _ detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs!” John said.

Sherlock shot him a look. This man was about to be proved horribly wrong in his assumptions. “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” You looked surprised.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room…‘Bit different from my day,’…said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John sat back quietly. “You said I had a therapist.”

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother.”

“Hmm?” John asked.

Sherlock held his hand out for John’s phone. “Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for a flatshare, you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.” John handed him the phone and Sherlock started turning it without thinking about it. “Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving,” John provided, understanding in his voice.

“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months in he’s just giving it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How could you  _ possibly _ know about the drinking?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled. He wasn’t used to being encouraged. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them. There you go, you see, you were right.”

“I was right. Right about what?” John asked.

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock looked out the window and tried not to imagine the worst possible scenario of this revelation. There was every possibility John might jump out of the cab, or worse, throw  _ Sherlock _ out. So John’s response was entirely unexpected. “That…was amazing.”

Sherlock struggled to find his words. “…Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.”

That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock admitted.

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

“Surely you don’t need someone to tell you?” Sherlock asked.

He smiled at John and John smiled back, before looking out the window. Sherlock was thrilled. Someone who didn’t hate him and his observant brain. Someone he could live with. This was promising. He hoped Mycroft wouldn’t ruin everything.

* * *

The cab slowed to a stop and after paying the cabbie, Sherlock and John got out. Sherlock turned to John. “Did I get anything wrong?”

“Harry and me don’t get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce…Harry is a drinker.”

“Spot on then, I didn’t expect to get everything right.”

“Harry’s short for Harriet,” John said, continuing to walk after Sherlock stopped.

“Harry’s your sister.”

“Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”

“ _ Sister! _ ”

“No, seriously, what am I doing here?” John insisted.

“There’s always something.”

The two are met at the edge of the police tape by Sergeant Donovan. “Hello, freak,” she said, with a slight lip curl.

“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said cooly.

“Why?”

“I was invited.”

“Why?”

“I think he wants me to take a look,” Sherlock snarked.

“Well you know what I think, don’t you?”

“Always, Sally.” Sherlock sniffed. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I don’t…” Sally started, before turning to John with her unwanted attention. “Er, who’s this?”

“Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sgt. Sally Donovan. Old friend.”

Sally laughed, “A colleague. SInce when do you get a colleague?” She turned to John. “What, did he follow you home?”

“Would it be better if I just waited and--”

“No,” Sherlock said, lifting the police tape for John to walk under.

Donovan held up a walkie-talkie and informed it, “Freak’s here, bringing him in.”

As the three walked to the building, Anderson came out, displeased at seeing Sherlock. “Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.”

“It’s a crime scene, I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” Anderson demanded.

Sherlock sniffed again. “Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that,” Sherlock informed him.

“My deodorant?!” Anderson asked.

“It’s for men!” Sherlock said.

“Well of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”

“So’s Sgt. Donovan,” Sherlock informed him. With another quick sniff, he grimaced. “Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?”

Anderson pointed at Sherlock, a scowl on his face. “Now look; whatever you’re trying to imply…”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over.” One more thing, for the kill. “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

He smiled and walked into the house, John behind him, glancing at Donovan’s knees.

Oh, this was going to be  _ fun _ .


	5. Chapter 5

John was more than a little bit confused as he followed Sherlock into the house and subsequently into a room filled with coveralls, but he wasn’t so confused as to ask anything just yet. He assumed that he’s get an explanation of some sort from Sherlock. “You need to wear one of these,” Sherlock explained to John.

“Who’s this?” the detective, who John figured was Lestrade, asked.

Sherlock took off his gloves. “He’s with me.”

“Yeah, but who is he?”

“I _said_ he’s with me,” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Aren’t you gonna put one on?” John asked as he donned the coverall.

Sherlock gave him a stern look and John shook his head as if to say ‘what was I thinking?’. “So where are we?” Sherlock asked Lestrade.

“Upstairs,” Lestrade answers. He led them to the steps and said, “I can give you two minutes.”

“May need longer,” Sherlock drawled.

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her,” Lestrade explained.

The room they were led to was completely devoid of furniture, and there was bright lighting set up by the police. In the middle of the room, there was a woman lying dead, face-first on the ground. She was wearing a vividly pink overcoat and high heels of the same shade. John bit the inside of his cheek. He had seen bodies before, of course, he couldn’t even save everyone who passed under his gaze in Afghanistan. But to have someone who was just trying to live their life die at someone’s else’s hands senselessly…he could never get over that, even after all these years. “Shut up,” Sherlock said to Lestrade.

Lestrade’s attention snapped to Sherlock. “I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

John and Lestrade share a look as Sherlock inspects the body. He immediately notices that the floorboards have been scratched into, forming the letters ‘rache’. Sherlock catalogues his first deduction.

Left handed.

He inspects the letters.

RACHE

German (n.) revenge

No, that’s not it. He shook his head minutely.

Rachel

Much more plausible. He inspected the back of her coat.

Wet

There was an umbrella in her pocket. He ran his fingers over it.

Dry

Her coat collar, was it wet or dry? He checked.

Wet

What about her jewelry? Bracelet, earring, and necklace in that order.

Clean

Clean

Clean

But her rings…wedding and engagement.

Dirty

So what does that say about the her?

Married

Unhappily married

Unhappily married for 10+ years

Sherlock worked the ring off her finger. The outside and the inside, respectively…

Clean

Dirty

He put it back on gently.

Regularly removed

All that means one thing.

Serial adulterer

He smiled. Lestrade made his presence known. “Got anything?”

“Not much,” Sherlock replied, taking off his gloves and standing up.

Anderson leaned against the doorway. “She’s German. ‘Rache,’ it’s German for ‘revenge’. She could be trying to tell us something--”

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock said, slamming the door in Anderson’s face. He pulled up an app on his phone.

UK Weather

Maps

Local

Warnings

Next 24 hrs

7 day forecast

Maps, that’s what he needed.

“So she’s German?” Lestrade asked.

“Of course she’s not. She’s from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…before returning home to Cardiff,” Sherlock said. “So far so obvious.”

“Sorry, obvious?” John asked.

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade requested.

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?” Sherlock asked, ignoring their questions.

“Of the message?”

“Of the body. You’re a medical man,” Sherlock clarified.

“Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside,” Lestrade intervened.

“They won’t work with me.”

“I’m breaking every rule letting _you_ in here!”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped. “Because you need me.”

Lestrade looked away. “Yes I do.”

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock prompted.

“Hm?” John asked, looking to Lestrade for approval.

This is the last straw for Lestrade. “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.” He went outside to clear the area. “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.”

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“What am I doing here?” John whispered.

“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock whispered back.

“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent,” John pointed out.

“Yeah, well, this is more fun.”

“Fun?” John asked. “There’s a woman lying dead.”

Sherlock thought about this. “Perfectly sound analysis though I was hoping you would go deeper.”

John inspected the body, sniffing the woman’s mouth in the process. “Yeah…Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure, possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was. You’ve read the papers,” Sherlock said.

“What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth?” John asked.

“Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I’ll need anything you’ve got,” Lestrade said firmly from the doorway.

Sherlock stood up and prepared to launch into his deductions.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock glanced at the woman one last time before starting his spiel. “Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asked as John looked around. There was no suitcase in sight.

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, if you’re just making this up…!” Lestrade explained.

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work, look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“That’s brilliant!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock rounded on him. John looked down and muttered, “Sorry.”

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asked for clarification.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s not obvious to me,” John declared.

“My gosh, what’s it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring!” He rounded on the body again. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” He pulled out his phone with a flourish and showed it to the two men. “Cardiff.”

“That’s fantastic!” John enthused.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” John apologized.

“No, it’s…fine.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘suitcase’?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” Lestrade asked.

“No, she was writing an angry message in German, of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be! Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?!” Sherlock snarked.

“How do you know she had a suitcase?” Lestrade prompted.

“Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t a case,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock looked up and frowned. “Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a suitcase. There was never any suitcase,” Lestrade repeated.

“Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?” Sherlock called to the officers outside the room.

“Sherlock, there was no case!” Lestrade insisted.

Sherlock made his way down the stairs. “But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn’t miss them.”

“Yeah, right, thanks, and?!” Lestrade called.

“It’s murder, all of them! I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings – serial killings. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

“Why are you saying that?”

Sherlock stopped on the stairs and called up, “Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.”

John looked down and said, “She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there?”

“No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…Oh. Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed.

John frowned. “Sherlock?”

“What is it, what?!” Lestrade questioned.

“Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake,” Sherlock muttered.

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” Sherlock ordered.

“Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!”

Sherlock, from the bottom of the stairs, stuck his head into view and yelled, “PINK!”

He could vaguely hear Anderson say, “Let’s get on with it,” as he ran out of the house and away from the crime scene, checking all the local dumpsters for the pink suitcase. It had to be in an alley wide enough for a car, so the murderer wouldn’t look suspicious carrying a hot pink suitcase around. Block after block he searched, until he finally found it. He made a noise of triumph, before he remembered that John was still at the crime scene. And Mycroft wanted to talk with him. Sherlock scowled at the thought and immediately went in search of a cab to go back to Baker Street.

If Mycroft wanted to talk to John, he probably already had now. But just in case, he sent out a text.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.

SH

Sherlock thought about it. He was sure to get back before John, that much he knew. Would John ignore that text though, if it wasn’t convenient? Would he go on with his sad little existence since Sherlock forgot about him? He’d better send another text.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

SH

Better, though some part of him recognized that sounded a bit rude. This was going to be complicated, this human interaction stuff. What could he do that would entice John to come and stay with him? He needed this man around. He needed someone around,  _ period _ . Oh! He knew exactly what to say!

Could be dangerous.

SH

That was perfect. Now all he had to do was go back to Baker Street and relax while he waited for John to come right to him, and then they could continue on this mission to catch the serial killer.

Provided Mycroft didn’t scare John off.


	7. Chapter 7

John walked out of the building, limping heavily, trying to figure out in which direction Sherlock could have gone, and why. The police officer from before, Sgt. Donovan, came over. “He’s gone.”

“Who, Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”

John grew desperate. “Is he coming back?”

“Didn’t look like it,” Donovan quipped.

“Right.” John looked around. “Yes. Sorry, where am I?”

“Brixton.”

“Right. Er, do you know where I could get a cab around here? It’s just, well…my leg,” John said, gesturing to his cane.

Donovan softened a little bit. “Er, try the main road,” she informed him.

“Thanks,” John said, ducking under the piece of tape she lifted.

“But you’re not his friend,” Donovan said. When John turned around, she continued. “He doesn’t have friends. So who _are_ you?”

“I’m…I’m nobody. I just met him.”

“Okay, a bit of advice, then: stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” John asked.

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there,” Donovan replied with conviction.

“Why would he do that?” John asked.

“Because he’s a psychopath. Psychopath’s get bored,” Donovan replied simply.

“Donovan!” Lestrade called.

“Coming!” she called back. As she walked away she yelled, “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!” behind her.

John watched her go to the house before continuing his walk to the main road. As he walked past a telephone booth it started ringing, and he gawked at it for a moment. He checked his watch. It was late, too late to start a phone conversation with a mysterious stranger. He shook his head and kept walking to the main road, dimly aware that the phone booth had stopped ringing.

It was slow going to the main road, and John couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. A taxi came down the road and he was impossibly relieved. “Taxi! Taxi…” he called, but no luck.

To his right, a phone inside a fast food place rang, but as soon as an employee reached for it, it stopped. John’s hairs rose on the back of his neck. Once was a coincidence, twice was a plot against him. He continued walking, and wished that he didn't have to deal with a limp so he could get out of there faster. A second phone box rang as he passed it. John took a deep breath and went inside to answer. “Hello?”

The voice of a man drifted from the telephone’s receiver. “There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

John’s stomach flipped. “Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

The man ignored him. “Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

John glanced in the desired direction. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch,” the man instructed as the camera swiveled away. “There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

“Mm-hm,” John hummed.

The camera turned. “And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

Again, the camera turned away. John was vulnerable, somehow, now, and he knew it. “How are you doing this?”

A black car pulls up to the curb and a man exits, holding the back door open. “Get into the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

The man hung up and John looked out to the car, weighing his options. Finding the result would most likely be very bad if he were to refuse, he walked to the car and got in. Whoever the man was, he did have good choice in henchmen, or rather, hench _women_. The woman sitting across from him in the car was stunning. “Hello,” he said.

She looked at him, smiling before turning her gaze to her phone. “Hi.”

“What’s your name then?”

“Er…Anthea,” she said.

“Is that your real name?” John asked.

She smiled. “No.”

John nodded, then turned to look out the window. Where was he, exactly.? “I’m John.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Any point in asking where I’m going?” he asked, growing irritated.

“None at all…John.”

“Okay,” John said, keeping his anger in check. No need to yell at anyone who was just following orders.

He watched the car move across the streets, but couldn’t determine where they were or what he was supposed to be doing. After some time, John realized that they were getting into less residential areas and more streets populated by warehouses. When the car pulled into one of them John got the distinct feeling that he had been transferred from his universe into a Bond film. As he got out of the car, the only things he saw in the warehouse were a man in a suit and a folding chair, maybe 20 feet in front of him. The man pointed the tip of the umbrella he was holding at the chair and drawled, “Have a seat, John.”

What was this all about? “You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phone me… _on my phone_.” Screw that chair, he wasn’t going to let this man stand over him like a 5 year old in the principal’s office if he had any say in the matter.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down,” the man ordered.

“I don’t want to sit down,” John said simply.

The man’s expression turned curious. “You don’t seem very afraid,” he noted.

Yes, well, fighting off terrorists will give you a sense of what _real_ terror feels like. “You don’t seem very frightening.”

The man chuckled, and John could feel hair stand on the back of his neck despite himself. This wasn’t scary, but it was unsettling to him. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” The man’s voice hardened at his next question. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him…yesterday.” John’s own answer surprised him.

“Mmm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” the man asked.

Oh, he thought he was funny now, did he? “Who are you?”

“An interested party,” the man replied.

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends,” John said.

“You’ve met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“An what’s that?”

“An enemy,” the man responded.

“An enemy?” John asked.

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic,” the man sighed.

John looked around the warehouse. _Really?_ “Well thank goodness you’re above all that.”

The man frowned at him as John’s phone sent off a text alert.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.

SH

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” the man said with false concern.

“Not distracting me at all,” John said with as much calm as he could muster. He didn’t even know who this man was but he wanted to deck him.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked.

“I _could_ be wrong…but I think that’s none of your business,” John snarked.

“It could be.”

 _Was that a threat?_ “It really couldn’t,” John asserted.

“If you do move into, erm…two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?” John asked.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man,” the man said.

 _Not the answer I was looking for_. “In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” John asked. He seemed to be doing that a lot, but it was a useful question.

“I worry about him. Constantly,” the man said.

“Well, that’s nice of you,” John snarked.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a…difficult relationship.”

John’s phone sent off another text alert.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

SH

“No.”

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother,” John said.

The man laughed. “You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested,” John argued.

“‘Trust issues,’ it says here,” the man said, gesturing to the notebook.

John couldn’t help looking a little unnerved. “What’s that?”

“Could it be that you could trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?” John snapped.

“You don’t seem to be the kind to make friends easily.”

“Are we done?” John asked.

“You tell me,” the man replied.

John stared at the man, then began to walk away. What he said next should have been a tip off. “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

He stopped. Today was not the right day for someone to psychoanalyze him. He turned around, breathing heavily. “My what?” he seethed.

“Show me?” the man asked, nonplussed.

John planted his feet where he stood and held up his left hand. The man, who seemed unperturbed by John’s stubbornness, strolled over and reached out for it. John pulled his hand back. “ _Don’t_ ,” his voice held a strong warning.

The man stopped, and gave him a reprimanding glare. John bit back a sigh as he offered his hand out, and the man took it in his own hands. “Remarkable,” he murmured.

John pulled his hands back. “What is?”

“Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“What’s wrong with my hand?” John asked.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand.” At John’s near imperceptible nod, the man continues. “Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”

“Who _are_ you? How do you know that?”

“Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…you miss it. Welcome back.” The man turned and began to leave. “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”

John turns and the woman from before came out of the car and said, “I’m here to take you home.”

One last message came from John’s phone.

Could be dangerous.

SH

Was his hand really…? Yeah, it wasn’t shaking. He almost chuckled. Almost.

“Address?” Not-Anthea prompted.

“Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first,” he replied.


	8. Chapter 8

John walked into his old flat, checking to make everything was still in place. He opened his top desk drawer, pulling out his gun. He checked to make sure it was loaded, then tucked it into his waistband. He walked out and back to the mysterious black car which seemed to be his chauffeur tonight, and got in, sitting in silence with Not-Anthea until they got back to Baker Street. “Listen, your boss…any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?”

“Sure,” Not-Anthea replied.

“You’ve told him already, haven’t you?” John asked.

She smiled at him. “Yeah.”

John went to leave, but decided to take one last shot. “Hey, um…do you ever get any free time?” he asked.

Not-Anthea laughed. “Oh yeah. Lots.”

John waited expectantly, until Not-Anthea looked up at him, then the door to 221. “Bye,” she said impatiently.

“Okay,” John said, resigned, before getting out and heading into what he hoped was still his new flat.

He walked up the stairs and through the door to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa, repeatedly clenching his left fist. “What are you doing?” John asked.

“Nicotine patch. Helps me think.”

If John wasn’t mistaken, when Sherlock lifted his arm, there were three nicotine patches on it. Was _any_ thing in Sherlock’s life remotely normal? “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

“Good news for breathing,” John quipped.

“Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring.”

“Is that three patches?” John asked for clarification.

“It’s a three patch problem,” Sherlock said simply.

John looked around, remembering Sherlock’s texts, but found no reason to be wary. “Well?” No response. “You asked me to come, I’m assuming it’s important?”

There was a hesitation, then Sherlock opened his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John asked in disbelief.

“Don’t wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It’s on the website.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s got a phone,” John pointed out.

“She’s downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn’t hear.”

“I was on the other side of London!” John protested. At least he thought he was.

“There was no hurry,” Sherlock drawled.

John glared at him, digging out his phone and holds it out toward Sherlock. “Here.”

Sherlock held his palm out expectantly and John glowered. _What a brat_. He slapped the phone into Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock took it between his two palms underneath his chin in a prayer position. “So what’s this about, the case?”

“Her case,” Sherlock corrected.

“ _Her_ case?” John asked.

“Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The killer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

“Okay, he took her case. So?”

“It’s no use, there’s no other way, we’ll have to risk it,” Sherlock murmured. He held out the phone to John. “On my desk, there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

“You brought me here…to send a text,” John demanded.

“Text, yes. The number on my desk.”

John stared at Sherlock, then turned and went to look out the window at the street below, attempting to calm himself. “What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Just met a friend of yours.”

“A friend?” Sherlock sounded startled.

“An enemy.”

“Oh. Which one?” he asked.

“Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time!” Sherlock said.

“Who is he?” John asked.

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number.”

John glowered at him, but Sherlock was oblivious. He went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper, reading it. “Jennifer Wilson. That was…hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman?”

“Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number.”

John started to type in the number, shaking his head. “Are you doing it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you done it?” he asked again.

“Yeah--hang on!”

Sherlock said, “These words exactly: “‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out,’” John looked up, concerned. “‘Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.’”

What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have b

“You blacked out?” John asked.

“What? No. No!” He walked over the coffee table to the kitchen. “Type and send it. Quickly. Have you sent it?” He brought out a pink suitcase.

“What’s the address?” John asked.

“22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!”

John looks at what Sherlock brought out and blinks. Is that…? “That’s…that’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said. John continued to stare and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, perhaps I should mention, _I_ didn’t kill her.”

“I never said you did,” John said.

“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

“Do people normally think you’re the murderer?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked. “Now and then, yes.” Sherlock perched on the black armchair, leaning against the backrest.

“Okay…” John said, soaking that information in. He sat in the red armchair across from Sherlock. “How did you find this?”

“By looking,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Where?” John asked.

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely, so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?”

“Well it had to be pink, obviously,” Sherlock said.

“Why didn’t _I_ think of that?” John asked.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock replied.

John’s eyes snapped up to the man. “No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case? How could I?” John asked.

“Her phone. Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one, that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

“Maybe she left it at home,” John offered.

“She has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it, she _never_ leaves her phone at home.”

“Er…why did I just send that text?”

“Well, the question is, where is her phone _now?_ ”

“She could have lost it.”

“Yes, or…?”

“The murderer…You think the murderer has her phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone,” Sherlock explained.

“Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?” John asked.

The phone began to ring.

(Withheld)

Calling

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…” he waited for the phone to stop ringing before he continued. “…Would panic.”

Sherlock flipped the suitcase closed and stood. John looked up to him. “Have you talked to the police?”

“Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police,” Sherlock said.

“So why are you talking to me?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at the mantel. “Mrs Hudson took my skull.”

“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?”

“Relax, you’re doing fine.” Sherlock put on his coat When John didn’t move, Sherlock asked, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly,” Sherlock snarked.

“What, you want me to come with you?”

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…” John huffed a single laugh. “Problem?”

“Yeah, Sergeant Donovan,” John said.

“What about her?” Sherlock spat.

“She said…you get off on this. You enjoy it.”

“And I said ‘dangerous,’ and here you are,” Sherlock said, leaving the room.

John watched him go in shock, then hurried to grab his coat. “Screw it!”


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock heard John’s approaching footsteps and smiled. “Where are we going?” John asked.

“Northumberland Street is just a 5 minute walk from here,” Sherlock explained.

“You think he’s stupid enough to go there?” John questioned.

“No, I think he’s brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?”

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience,” Sherlock said.

John looked pointedly at him. “Yeah.”

Sherlock ignored the implications of that statement. He spun around, watching the street. “This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Who?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest. Hungry?”

He led John into a restaurant where the waiter led them to the table by the window. “Thank you, Billy,” he said.

He sat at the side of the table and watched out to window intently, while John sat with his back to it. He nodded to the building across the street. “22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it.”

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He’d need to be mad,” John said.

“He _has_ killed 4 people,” Sherlock pointed out.

“…Okay,” John said in a tone that clearly said ‘fair enough’.

Angelo came over to the table and shook Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date.”

“Do you want to eat?” Sherlock asked as John told Angelo, “I’m not his date.”

Angelo played oblivious. “This man got me off a murder charge.”

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced. John and Angelo shook hands. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

“He cleared my name,” Angelo told John.

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock corrected. “Anything happening opposite?”

“Nothing,” he told Sherlock. Then, to John, “But for this man, I would have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic,” Angelo told John.

John called after him, indignant, “I’m not his date!”

“You may as well eat. We might have a long wait,” Sherlock informed John.

Angelo came back with a candle and gave John a thumbs-up before leaving. John scoffed. “Thanks!” he called with sarcasm dripping from the word.

John orders his food and it comes out quickly. He gets about halfway through his plate before he starts to talk to Sherlock again. “People don’t _have_ arch-enemies.”

Sherlock glances over to him. “I’m sorry?”

“In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen,” John explained.

“Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.”

“So who did I meet?” John asked.

“What do people have in their ‘real lives’?” Sherlock deflected. He did _not_ want to talk about Mycroft.

“Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don’t like…Girlfriends, boyfriends…”

“Yes, well, as I was saying. Dull.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” John asked.

“Girlfriend, not really my area,” Sherlock said.

“Mm. Oh, right,” John said, as realization dawned. “Boyfriend, then? Which is fine by the way,” he quickly amended.

“Of course it’s fine, I know it’s fine,” Sherlock said. _But boyfriends aren’t my area either_.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” John asked.

“No.”

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good,” he said, clearing his throat.

 _I think so too…wait, what?_ Sherlock blinked and turned to John. “John, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…”

“No,” John said, clearing his throat again. “I’m not asking. No. I’m just saying, it’s _all_ fine.”

Sherlock looked John over, and was relieved to find he meant what he said. “Good. Thank you.” His attention was drawn to the window. “Look across the street. Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?” John asked.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock ordered.

John turned to him. “ _You’re_ staring.”

“We can’t both stare,” Sherlock said.

He grabbed his coat and ran out the door, John in pursuit, completely forgetting his cane. Sherlock sprinted into the street, nearly getting run over by a car but rolling across the front of it instead. He can hear John call, “Sorry!” behind him.

There is no way they’re going to catch a taxi that’s pulling into the street, and Sherlock slowed down at that realization. “I’ve got the plate number,” John said.

“Good for you,” Sherlock replied. “Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.”

ALTERNATE ROUTE

Sherlock dashed into a man who was opening the door to a building and shoved him out of the way. The man yelled an indignant, “Oi!”

Further behind, John called, “Sorry!”

They dashed across buildings, down streets, and through alleys, but they eventually were ahead of the taxi and Sherlock sprinted out in front of the taxi to stop it, pulling out a police ID. “Police! Open her up!” he opened the door and found the passenger looking anxiously at him. “No. Teeth, tan, what, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.”

“How can you know that?” John asked.

“The luggage. It’s probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?”

The man nodded. “Sorry, are you guys the police?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock flashed his ID at the man. “Everything all right?”

The passenger smiled. “Yeah.”

 _How do I end this?_ He smiled at the man and said, “Welcome to London.”

He walked away. John spoke to the passenger. “Er, any problems, just let us know,” he said, before jogging to catch up with Sherlock. “Basically a cab that just happened to slow down.”

“Basically,” Sherlock agreed.

“Not the murderer,” John panted.

“Not the murderer, no.”

“Wrong country, good alibi.”

“As they go.”

“Hey, where-where did you get this? Here. Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?” John asked.

“Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.” John giggled. “What?”

“Nothing, just…‘Welcome to London’.”

Sherlock chuckled, spying the real police officer talking to the cab passenger, who is pointing at them. “Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked.

“Ready when you are,” John confirmed.

Together the two ran back to Baker Street.


	10. Chapter 10

The 2 walked into Baker Street, trying to catch their breath and failing. They took off their coats in silence, and leaned against the wall to catch their breath. “Okay, that was ridiculous,” John panted. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock pointed out.

John laughed. “That wasn’t just me.” Sherlock laughed. “Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?”

“Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway,” Sherlock said, sobering up.

John frowned. “So what were we doing there?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point,” he said as he looked at John.

“What point?” John asked.

“You,” Sherlock replied simply. “Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs,” he called to her flat.

“Says who?” John asked.

Sherlock looked to the entrance they had just walked through. “Says the man at the door.”

As if on cue, someone knocked at the front door, and John looked to Sherlock before turning and answering it. On the other side, was Angelo. “Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this.”

“Ah!” John turned to look at Sherlock, who was grinning at him. “Er, thank you. Thank you.”

He closed the door and walked inside, as Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, crying. “Sherlock, what have you done?” she asked.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

“Upstairs,” she explained.

Sherlock dashed up the stairs and John, confused, followed him. To his surprise, there were officers swarming the flat, going through all of Sherlock’s things. John had yet to move anything over here, for which he was grateful now. Sherlock stormed over to Lestrade. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Well I knew you’d find the case, I’m not stupid,” Lestrade said.

“You can’t break into my flat!” Sherlock protested.

“And you can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade shot back. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well what do you call this, then?!” Sherlock spat.

Lestrade looked around at all the officers. “It’s a drugs bust!”

John laughed. “Seriously?! _This_ guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!”

Sherlock went closer to John and looked around, pensive. “John…”

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call ‘recreational,’” John asserted.

“John, you might want to shut up now,” Sherlock hissed.

“Yeah, but come on,” John protested, before locking eyes with Sherlock and noting how serious he was about this whole situation. “No.”

“What?”

“You?!” John asked incredulously.

“Shut up!” Sherlock exclaimed. He turned to Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog,” Lestrade said, nodding to the kitchen.

“What?! An--”

He turns to the kitchen. “Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?!”

“Oh, I volunteered,” Anderson said with a sneer.

“They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen,” Lestrade explained.

Donovan walked forward. “Are these _human_ eyes?”

“Put them back!” Sherlock ordered.

“They were in the microwave!” Sally exclaimed.

“It’s an experiment!”

“Keep looking, guys,” Lestrade ordered, standing up. “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock started pacing. “This is childish.”

“Well, I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

Sherlock growled. “Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if we find anything,” Lestrade pointed out.

“I. Am. Clean!” Sherlock bit out.

“Is your flat? All of it?” Lestrade questioned.

“I don’t even smoke,” Sherlock said, rolling up his sleeve, and John watched, somewhat relieved that Sherlock only had one on his arm at this juncture.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade retorted, rolling up his own sleeve. Sherlock rolled his eyes and the 2 men returned their shirt sleeves to their original positions. “So let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.”

Sherlock rounded on him. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Her daughter?” Sherlock asked. “Why would she write her daughter’s name, why?”

“Never mind that. We found the case.” Anderson pointed to the case in the living room. “According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!” Sherlock snapped. “You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her.”

“She’s dead,” Lestrade said.

“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed, and John looked at him, shocked to the core. “How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago,” Lestrade elaborated.

John winced and looked away. In an emergency or 2 he had to work as a doctor in the delivery room, and not all of those babies had come out of the birth alive. “No, that’s… that’s not right. How…? Why would she do that? Why?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup, sociopath, I’m seeing it now,” Anderson quipped.

“She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt,” Sherlock corrected. He began to pace around the room, his movements jerking occasionally.

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he…I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow,” John suggested.

“Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?”

John stared at him. _Did he really just…?_ The entire flat was silent, so he must have said that. Sherlock looked around the room and then turned his awkward gaze to John. “Not good?” he asked.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John muttered back.

Sherlock got a distant look on his face for only a few seconds before he snapped back to attention. “Yeah, but if you were dying…if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?”

“Please, God, let me live,” John replied.

“Oh, use your imagination!” Sherlock exclaimed.

John thought back to the day where he was shot, the searing pain, the spots dancing in his vision as he almost passed out from blood loss, and the pure fear the thought that he was going to lose consciousness in a war zone instilled in him. “I don’t have to,” John said.

Sherlock shifted for a second on his feet before returning to the task at hand. “Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever…Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers, she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something,” Sherlock said. _But what?_


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was trying to figure out what Jennifer Wilson was trying to tell them, but all of these people weren’t helping his thought process. Mrs. Hudson came to the door and knocked. “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t order a taxi. Go away,” Sherlock ordered.

But it looked like she wasn’t going to listen to him today. “Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?”

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson,” John explained.

“But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers!” Mrs. Hudson said in a panic.

Too many people, clouding his thought process. He was not going to put up with this. “Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.”

“What, my _face_ is?!” Anderson scoffed.

“Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back,” Lestrade ordered.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

“Your back, now, please!”

Sherlock massaged his temples. “Come on, think. Think!”

“What about your taxi?” Mrs. Hudson asked, interrupting his train of thought.

“MRS. HUDSON!” Sherlock exclaimed. Then the realization hit. “Oh. Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!” He turned to the “drug squad” in his flat. “She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead! Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

“But how?” Lestrade asked.

“Wha…? What do you mean, how? Rachel! Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.”

John stepped forward. “Then what is it?”

“John, on the luggage there’s a label. E-mail address.”

And thank goodness that John wasn’t as slow as the rest of the people in the flat. “Er, jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk.”

“Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address…and all together now, the password is?”

“Rachel,” John answered.

“So we can read her e-mails. So what?” Anderson scoffed.

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her,” Sherlock explained.

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade pointed out.

John turned to him. “We know he didn’t.”

The screen was still loading and Sherlock was growing impatient. “Come on, come on, quickly!”

“Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…” Mrs. Hudson starts.

Sherlock rounds on her. “Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?” he asks as John takes his place in watching the screen.

“We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever,” Sherlock said to Lestrade.

“We’ll just have a map reference, not a name,” Lestrade pointed out.

“It’s a start!” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock…” John said.

“It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had,” Sherlock continued.

“Sherlock…” John tried again.

“What is it? Quickly, where?” he asked, dashing over to look at the map.

“It’s here. It’s in 221 Baker Street.”

Sherlock straightened up. “How can it be here? How?”

“Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,” Lestrade reasoned.

“What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?” Sherlock asked.

“Anyway, we texted him and he called back,” John defended.

Lestrade ignored both of them. “Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…”

Sherlock went over his own words earlier that night in his head. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. Everyone was taken off the street in a taxi cab. It wasn’t the passenger who was looking out at Lauriston Gardens, it was the _driver_.

The same driver who insisted that Sherlock had ordered a taxi.

The one who was standing behind Mrs. Hudson, Jennifer Wilson’s phone in hand. Sherlock’s phone chimed a text alert.

Come with me.

The taxi driver walked down the stairs, and Sherlock knew he had to follow. John turned to look at him and frowned. “Sherlock? You okay?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine,” Sherlock said distractedly, moving toward the door.

“So, how can the phone be here?”

“Dunno,” Sherlock dismissed.

“I’ll try it again,” John decided.

“Good idea,” Sherlock muttered.

John gave him a closer look. “Where are you going?”

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long,” Sherlock said.

“You sure you’re all right?”

As soon as John couldn’t see him, Sherlock rushed down the stairs. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock opened the door to the outside world with care, and stepped outside to find the cabbie leaning against the taxi as if he hadn’t murdered 4 people. It made Sherlock feel just the smallest amount apprehensive. “Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.”

Closing the door, Sherlock took a step forward. “I didn’t order a taxi.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” the man shrugged.

“You’re the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger.”

The cabbie smiled. “See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ’ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

“Is this a confession?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, yeah. An’ I’ll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise,” the cabbie said.

That threw Sherlock off. “Why?”

“‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.”

“Am I not?” Sherlock scoffed.

“I didn’t kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to them…and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I will never tell you what I said.”

Sherlock watches the man for a while and the man walks around the cab, making to get into the cab. “No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result,” Sherlock said.

“And you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?” the cabbie asked.

“If I wanted to understand, what would I do?” Sherlock asked.

“Let me take you for a ride,” the cabbie said/

“So you can kill me too?”

“I don’t wanna kill you, Mr. Holmes. I’m gonna talk to you…and then you’re gonna kill yourself,” the cabbie explained.

Sherlock looked up at the flat, considering. He could call the police. He could take in this serial killer, right now. But he wouldn’t know how he did it. Sherlock got inside the cab, and the cabbie pulled away.


	12. Chapter 12

John looked down at the street below, watching Sherlock talk to the cabbie. He didn’t know what was going on down there, but he had a feeling it was anything but good. The taxi pulled away and John tried to shake the feeling. It wasn’t working. “He just got in a cab.” He turned to Lestrade and repeated the statement. “It’s Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

Donovan wasn’t hesitant to show her irritation. “ I told you, he does that. He left again. We’re wasting our time!”

John dialed Jennifer Wilson’s number. “I’m calling the phone. It’s ringing out.”

“If it’s ringing, it’s not here,” Lestrade said.

“I’ll try the search again,” John informed Lestrade.

“Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time. All our time,” Donovan said in her frustration.

Lestrade sighs. “All right, everybody. We’re done here.”

The police officers grumble but dutifully leave, and Lestrade turns to John as he grabs his coat. “Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”

“You know him better than I do,” John said with a small shrug.

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t,” Lestrade said.

John smiled briefly, before sobering once again. “So why do you put up with him?”

Lestrade sighed. “Because I’m desperate, that’s why.” He was about to leave when he turned back. “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

John sighed once he was alone in the flat. _This was a mistake, I should have just gone home,_ he thought in disgust with himself. _That plan will be going into effect I suppose. Too good to be true._ He flexed his hand and looked around for his cane; his leg was acting up. He found it on some boxes and grabbed it, making to leave again when Sherlock’s computer beeped. John checked the screen, and the phone was no longer at Baker Street. But, Sherlock didn’t have it, the killer did. Which meant if it was none of the police officers…

... _The cabbie is the murderer. Sherlock Holmes got into a cab with a murderer._

John grabbed the computer in both hands and ran down the stairs, to eager to get a cab to realize that he had left his cane, once again, propped against a table.

* * *

At the same time, Sherlock was watching London pass by around the cab, feigning indifference to the man driving the taxi. “How did you find me?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I recognised you, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you. I’ve been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!” the cabbie said.

“Who warned you about me?” Sherlock asked, interested.

“Just someone out there who’s noticed you,” the man said vaguely.

“Who?” Sherlock asked, looking at the man closer, taking in the shaving cream behind his ear and the faded photo of 2 kids on the dashboard, the mother cut out of the picture. “Who would notice me?”

“You’re too modest, Mr. Holmes,” was all the cabbie said.

“I’m really not,” Sherlock scoffed.

“You’ve got yourself a fan.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat. “Tell me more.”

“That’s all you’re gonna know…” Jeff said, before lowering his voice to a murmur. “…In _this_ lifetime.”

Sherlock took that as the end of their conversation, and resumed tracking where they were. They travelled in silence for 10 or so more minutes before pulling up to a college building. Still, when the cabbie came around and opened the door for Sherlock, he feigned ignorance, to see how much this cabbie had done by way of research. “Where are we?”

“You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are,” the cabbie said.

Couldn’t get away with much, then. “Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?”

The cabbie shrugged. “It’s open, cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.”

“And you just walk your victims in? How?” The cabbie pulled out a pistol. Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Really?_ “Oh, dull.”

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” the cabbie assured.

“You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t. It’s much better than that,” he lowered the gun and smiled. “Don’t need this with you, ’cause you’ll follow me.”

Sherlock oscillated on the pavement, watching the cabbie walk away, then grimaced. He had to follow, to find out what he said to his victims. Together they walk down the hallways until the cabbie opens the door to an empty classroom for Sherlock to walk in. When he did, he inspected the space. Wooden benches and plastic chairs lined the room, and there were windows on the right wall. “Well, what do you think?” the cabbie asked.

Sherlock shrugged. What was he supposed to think about an empty classroom?

“It’s up to you. You’re the one who’s gonna die here,” the cabbie said.

“No I’m not,” Sherlock said, turning to face the man again.

“That’s what they all say.” The cabbie nodded to one of the benches. “Shall we talk?”

The man pulled out a chair and sat down. Sherlock grabbed a chair from the row in front of the bench and sat down across from him, taking his gloves off. “Bit risky, wasn’t it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They’re not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you,” Sherlock said.

“You call that a risk? Nah. This is a risk.” He took out a small plastic bottle with a single off-white pill inside it from his pocket. “Ooh, I like this bit. ’Cause you don’t get it yet, do you? But you’re about to. I just have to do this.” An identical bottle joined it on the bench. “You weren’t expecting that, were you? Ooh, you’re going to love this.”

Sherlock started to grow impatient. He didn’t know what was going on, and he didn’t like not knowing. “Love what?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours, your fan told me about it,” the cabbie carried on.

“My fan?” Sherlock prodded.

“You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. _The Science of Deduction_. Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can’t people think? Don’t it make you mad? Why can’t people just think?”

Sherlock stared at the man, trying to find the meaning in his words. He could almost roll his eyes when he realized what the man meant. “Oh, I see. So you’re a proper genius too.”

“Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.”

Sherlock looked down at the scenario in front of him. “Okay, 2 bottles. Explain.”

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live, take the pill from the bad bottle, you die,” the cabbie stated.

“Both bottles are of course identical.”

“In every way.”

“And you know which is which.”

“‘Course I know.”

“But I don’t?”

“Wouldn’t be a game if you knew, you’re the one who chooses,” the cabbie said.

“Why should I? I’ve got nothing to go on. What’s in it for me?”

“ I haven’t told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then, together, we take our medicine.”

_Oh._

“I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t. Didn’t expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock inspected the bottles. “This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice.”

“And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.”

Sherlock scoffed as he looked up. “It’s not a game. It’s chance.”

“I’ve played four times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, Mr. Holmes, it’s chess. It’s a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this…this…is the move.” He slid the bottle on the left to Sherlock. “Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one. You ready yet, Mr. Holmes? Ready to play?”

“Play what? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

“You’re not playing the numbers, you’re playing me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?”

“Still just chance,” Sherlock said, bristling.

“Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.”

“Luck.”

“It’s genius. I know how people think. I know how people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my head. Everyone’s so stupid…even you. Or maybe God just loves me,” the man said with a shrug.

Sherlock leaned forward. “Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie. So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?”

The cabbie ignored him and looked down at the bottles. “Time to play.”

“Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody’s pointed it out to you. Traces of where it’s happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there’s no-one to tell you. But there’s a photograph of children. The children’s mother has been cut out of the picture. If she’d died, she’d still be there. The photograph’s old but the frame’s new. You think of your children but you don’t get to see them.” The cabbie’s eyes fill with pain as he looks away from Sherlock. “Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts. Ah, but there’s more.” The man looks back at him. “Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you’re wearing is at least…three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What’s that about?…Ah. Three years ago…is that when they told you?”

“Told me what?” the cabbie asked, though his tone said he knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about.

Sherlock’s deduction came quickly in front of the man.

Dying.

“That you were a dead man walking.”

“So are you.”

“You don’t have long, though. Am I right?”

Jeff smiled, though it was bitter. “Aneurism. Right in here. Any breath could be my last.”

“And because you’re dying, you’ve just murdered four people?”

“I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can have with an aneurism.”

“No. No, there’s something else. You didn’t just kill four people because you’re bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children.”

“Ohh. You are good, ain’t you?”

“But how?” Sherlock asked.

“When I die, they won’t get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.”

“Or serial killing.”

“You’d be surprised,” the cabbie said.

“Surprise me.”

The man leaned forward. “I have a sponsor.”

“You have a what?”

“For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be. You see? It’s nicer than you think.”

“Who’d sponsor a serial killer?” Sherlock asked.

“Who’d be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?” the cabbie shot back.

“You’re not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There’s others out there just like you, except you’re just a man…and they’re so much more than that.”

“What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?”

“There’s a name no-one says…and I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.”

“What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here.”

The man sighed, pulling out the gun again. “You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no-one’s ever gone for that option.”

“I’ll have the gun, please,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. The gun.”

“You don’t wanna phone a friend?”

“The gun,” Sherlock orders.

The cabbie pulled the trigger of the gun, and a small flame came out of the muzzle. “I know a real gun when I see one,” Sherlock said.

“None of the others did,” the cabbie said with a shrug.

“Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.”

Sherlock made to leave but the man turned in his seat and called, “Just before you go, did you figure it out…which one’s the good bottle?”

“Of course. Child’s play.”

“Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?” Sherlock closed the door and turned. “Come on. Play the game.” Sherlock walked toward the man and picked up the bottle closest to where he was sitting. Neither men gave anything away. “Oh. Interesting. So what d’you think?” He takes the pill out of the bottle and looks at Sherlock. “Shall we? Really, what do you think?” He stood up. “Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you…” Sherlock undid the lid of his bottle. “…so clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict. But this…this is what you’re really addicted to, innit? You’d do anything…anything at all…to stop being bored.” The pills inch closer to the men’s mouths. “You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?”

And then the gunshot rang through the classroom.


	13. Chapter 13

John hailed a taxi as quickly as he could, balancing the laptop in one hand and a phone in the other. He needed to let Lestrade know what Sherlock was doing, this could only end badly if John didn’t have any help and he didn’t find Sherlock in time. “No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It’s important. It’s an emergency!” He looked at the map and told the cab driver, “Er, left here, please. Left here.”

It took him a few minutes to be able to get on the line to Lestrade. “Who’s this?” the detective asked.

“Detective Lestrade? It’s John Watson. Sherlock knows who the killer is, I think, and he’s with him right now. I need help, can you track my phone or something and send someone to my location? I’m pretty sure that Sherlock is going to try and single-handedly take down a serial killer.”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. “Keep your phone on, I’ll see if I can get someone who knows how to track it. Don’t let Sherlock do anything stupid!”

“I make no promises until I actually get to where he is, but I’ll do my best.”

The man on the other end hung up and John looked around anxiously. “Come on, Sherlock…” he muttered. “I need your help to actually pay the rent.”

John arrived at Roland-Kerr College. The taxi pulled away, and John tucked the notebook into his jacket. Great, just great. There were 2 identical buildings in front of him.  _ Which one has the phone, the killer, and Sherlock inside? _ He looked at the 2 of them, and thought,  _ Screw it _ . He headed inside the buildings.

He ran down corridors, checked inside classrooms, and found nothing that would indicate anyone had been there, except the faint smell of bleach the cleaning staff left behind. “Sherlock?” he called. He looked in the different windows all down the corridor. “Sherlock!”

John ran into one final room, freezing as he looked in. There, across the courtyard, was Sherlock, in the opposite building. With the serial killer. And John didn’t have the time to run across and get into the room. “SHERLOCK!”

Running to the window, he looked out. Sherlock and the cabbie were talking about something, and if John had to guess it would be about how one of them was going to die very soon. He had to do something, to save this man who had cured his limp and gave him something to live for. It wouldn’t be fair if he couldn’t return the favor. He reached for the middle of the back of his waistband and felt the familiar cool metal of his gun greet him.

John silently thanked his captains for investing time in him to make him have almost as good aim as the snipers who roamed the desert with their special assignments, despite his only being an army doctor. Now he was an army doctor with a crack shot, and only one option in front of him. He brought his gun up to the window, and looked out, trying to get a clear shot of the cabbie without hitting Sherlock. Sherlock raised his arm, inspecting something. John took the cleanest shot he was going to get, hitting the cabbie close to his heart. The man would die of blood loss and shock fairly quickly left alone, and John doubted Sherlock would take the time to save the man’s life.

It took John a moment after the shot rang out and silence enveloped him to realize he still had his gun raised. He lowered it, flicked the safety on, and walked out of the room before Sherlock could see him.

\---

The bullet hit the cabbie square in the chest, travelling through his body, and hit the door behind the man. Sherlock dropped the pill he was holding on reflex and backed away. He took all of this in without any real attachment to what was going on. Sherlock hopped over the desk and looked out the window that had just been shot, through the bullet hole. No one was there. The cabbie rasped and coughed. Sherlock turned, looking around the room. One of the pills was lying on the desk. The cabbie gasped and coughed like a fish, his muscles spasming on reflex, his body in full fight-or-flight mode, despite not being able to do a thing. Sherlock snatched the pill, and kneeled down in front of the cabbie, holding it up. The man was staring up at Sherlock in shock and a pool of his own blood forming underneath him. “Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right?” Sherlock demanded.

The cabbie didn’t reply and Sherlock hurled the pill angrily away. There was no time for getting that out of the man if there really was a sponsor out there somewhere. “Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me…my ‘fan’. I want a name.”

The man shook his head. “No…” he rasped.

“You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name.” The man shook his head in response. Sherlock put his foot on the man’s shoulder, closer to the wound than was strictly necessary, and pressed. “A name. Now.” The man whimpered in pain. Sherlock was losing his patience, and he pressed his weight into the foot on the man’s body. “A  _ name _ !”

“MORIARTY!” the cabbie yelled. Then his face went slack and his head lolled to the side.

Sherlock took a step back from the man; after all, he was of no use anymore. Moriarty…who or what was a Moriarty? And could he even trust this man? Sherlock leaned down and rifled through the man’s pockets, looking for an ID, and pulling out his license, which read  _ Jeff Hope _ . “Well, Mr. Hope,” Sherlock said, returning the card and standing up, “Looks like you needn’t have worried about that aneurysm after all.”

In the distance, Sherlock could hear sirens, and he rolled his eyes. “Always so slow,” he muttered.

He walked out of the college to meet Lestrade at the entrance and explain what happened. Things didn’t go quite as he had expected. Lestrade immediately came up to him and started yelling. “What do you think you’re doing, going after a serial killer on your own?! You know that you’re not a copper, you have to let one of us know, and preferably let us handle it, even though I know that wouldn’t happen!”

“There’s a man inside, Jeff Hope, he’s the killer. Took a shot to the chest, not by me, though. Someone around here has a gun. Canvas the area.”

Lestrade nodded to a few of his men, then took Sherlock by the arm. “Come on, we need the paramedics to look you over.”

“Why? I’m fine!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Yeah, which is why you need to be checked out. You could be going into shock.”

Lestrade dragged Sherlock to the ambulance, despite the man’s numerous and detailed protests. Lestrade rolled his eyes and gave him to the paramedics. “Keep an eye on this one. We’ve got one other, dead on the way out now.”

Sherlock grumbled but sat on the edge of the ambulance as the paramedics checked his pulse and blood pressure. He protested with more venom, however, when they tested how his response time was and the paramedics declared him all right, and put a blanket on his shoulders. Sherlock snarled and hurled the blanket into the back of the ambulance.

People were starting to gather around the area as police tape was strung around the college. Sherlock was tempted to investigate the crowd when a paramedic put a hand on his shoulder and draped the blanket back on him. Sherlock through it in the paramedic’s face, but the man was unfazed and simply put it back around Sherlock’s shoulders as he went back inside the ambulance. Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who was looking too amused for his own good. “Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.”

“It’s for shock,” Lestrade answered.

“I’m not  _ in _ shock,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs,” Lestrade said with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So, the shooter. No sign?”

“Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but…we’ve got nothing to go on.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Okay, give me what you’ve got.”

Sherlock stood up, eager to get away from the ambulance. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon, that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimated to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and nerves of steel…” he looks around the crowd and finds John standing behind the tape. The doctor looks over at him with some concern, before looking away again.  _ Oh. That’s interesting. _ “Actually, you know what? Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade sputtered.

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.”

“Where are you going?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock started to walk toward John.

“I just need to talk about the…the rent.”

“But I’ve still got questions for you!” Lestrade protested.

Sherlock turned to him. “Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!”

“Sherlock!”

“And I just caught you a serial killer…more or less.”

Lestrade sighed. “Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock could have sighed in relief.  _ Finally _ .


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but life happened. Sorry, I hope this will make up for it!

John watched Sherlock approach with no small amount of apprehension. The man threw the shock blanket he was holding into a police car and ducked under the police tape, stopping in front of him.  _ Does he know? Of course he knows, the way he’s looking at me _ …“Erm, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the 2 pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.”

Sherlock muttered something, and it took John a second to realize he had said, “Good shot.”

_ So he definitely knows. _ “Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window,” John tried to look innocent but knew he was failing. He was never a good actor.

“Well, you’d know. Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.” John glanced around to see if anyone had heard that. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, I…That’s true, innit?” He ignored Sherlock’s stare and allowed himself to smile just a fraction. The one thing he thought he might never do, even in battle, he had just done tonight. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, and John wondered what was going through that man’s head at the moment. “No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And frankly an awful cabbie,” John snorted.

Sherlock chuckled, and started to walk away from the crime scene. “That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!”

John giggled and Sherlock joined in. “Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!”

“You’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down!” John hissed as they passed Sgt. Donovan. “Sorry, it’s just, um, nerves, I think.”

Sherlock threw a half-hearted “Sorry,” over his shoulder.

“You were gonna take that pill, weren’t you?” John asked.

“‘Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up,” Sherlock brushed off.

“No you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Because you’re an idiot,” John replied.

Sherlock grinned, but bit the grin down. “Dinner?”

“Starving.”

“End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open ‘til 2. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

There’s a black car by the kerb and out steps the man who abducted John and Not-Anthea. “Sherlock. That’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

Sherlock glanced over. “I know exactly who that is.”

They made their way to the man, and John glanced back to make sure there are still police nearby. Thankfully, there were. The man started to speak. “So, another case cracked. How very public spirited…though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern,’” Sherlock spat.

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” the man asked.

“Oddly enough, no!”

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer…and you know how it always upset Mummy.”

… _ What _ .

“I upset her? Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”

Did he hear that right?! “No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?”

“Mother--our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock explained. “Putting on weight again?”

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft snapped.

John turned to Sherlock incredulously. “He’s your brother?!”

“Of course he’s my brother,” Sherlock scoffed.

“So he’s not…”

“Not what?”

John shrugged as two sets of eyes were now on him. “I dunno…a criminal mastermind?”

“Close enough,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft scoffed. “For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“He  _ is _ the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.”

John started to follow Sherlock on his way out of there, but paused and decided to ask Mycroft a few questions first. “So, when-when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?”

“Yes, of course,” the man responded.

“I mean, it actually is a childish feud?”

“He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

John could have laughed. “Yeah…no. No! I-I’d better, um…” Oh, there’s Not-Anthea. Maybe now he could actually talk to her? “Hello again.”

She looked up from her phone… _ That’s a good sign _ . “Hello.”

“Yes, we met earlier on this evening.”

“Oh!”

_ Yeah, I don’t have a chance _ . “Okay, good night.”

It’s Mycroft who called after he left, “Good night, Doctor Watson.”

John was all too eager when he caught up to Sherlock. “So, dim sum.”

“Mm! I can always predict the fortune cookies,” Sherlock said.

“No you can’t.”

“Almost can. You did get shot, though.”

Where did that come from? “Sorry?”

“In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.”

“Oh, yeah. Shoulder,” John explained.

“Shoulder! I thought so.”

John had a hard time stopping himself from laughing. “No you didn’t.”

“The left one.”

“Lucky guess.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock said proudly.

Screw it, they were far enough from the crime scene now. “Yes you do.” Sherlock was smiling. It was an odd sight for John, this was the first time he had really gotten a good look at the man’s smile. “What are you so happy about?”

“Moriarty,” was all Sherlock said.

“What’s a Moriarty?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” Sherlock declared.

John laughed. “And you like it that way, don’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked over to John, smiling. “For now.”

John smiled back.


	15. Chapter 15

The Chinese place was small, and half full. Sherlock turned to John. “Do you want the food here or to go?”

“Whichever you want is fine by me,” John said. “Either way, we’ve learned a lot about each other already, and we can learn a bit more over dinner.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Through small talk?”

“Doesn’t have to be small,” John shrugged. “You could tell me more about the killer. I can learn about you by the way you talk about it. That’s how I learn things about a lot of my friends.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t have  _ friends _ . We’re just flatmates.”

“Yeah? Well,” John pointed to himself. “This flatmate would like to know what he’s getting into rooming with you. So humor me? Just for 5 minutes, you don’t have to talk after 5 minutes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh,  _ fine _ .”

John smiled. “You’re usually not this stubborn, I hope,” he said as a hostess led them to a table in the back.

“Always, I assure you,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

John chuckled. “So…your brother,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “No, seriously. He’s a bit of a…”

“I’ve heard it all, in fact I’ve said it all,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Not worth part of your 5 minutes.”

John shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I was just going to say I understand why you’re not fond of him.”

Sherlock smirked. “You’re not too bad, doctor.”

“Yeah? You’re not too bad yourself.” John looked over the menu, and Sherlock looked over John. “Is there anything here you’d recommend?”

“Mm…the spring rolls aren’t bad.”

“With chicken or shrimp, which do you prefer?” John asked.

“Either. I much prefer their dumplings in a post-case meal,” Sherlock said. “Is this how you’re really going to spend your 5 minutes of conversation?”

“Why not? I now know what to order you if I get take out, don’t I?” John countered.

Sherlock paused. That was true, he conceded, but he didn’t want to say anything out loud. “Oi, don’t just not say anything when you know I’m right!” John teased.

With a roll of his eyes and a smirk, Sherlock said, “And how, pray tell, do you think that I think you’re right? Could it be that you can deduce too?”

John shook his head and smirked. “I don’t deduce, I listen. If the only time you eat is between cases, and I order food from here for both of us during a case, then you naturally won’t eat it. I would refrigerate it, then, and when the case was done you would have dumplings waiting for you, which I know for a fact you would eat. And if you’re in between cases, you would eat them right away, because you enjoy them enough for them to be your reward after a case is closed. Simple. I know what to order for you now, whether or not you’re on a case.”

Sherlock paused. That…was actually a highly logical statement. Maybe there was more to this small talk thing than Sherlock had first assumed. “I see your point. So, er…your sister? What’s she like? Nothing like my brother, I assume.”

John sighed. “Harry’s, er…well. You already know she’s an alcoholic. Refuses to see she has a problem, and relies on me for rides home most nights. We talk nowadays, at least. That used to be Christmas and New Year’s, maybe. Emphasis on maybe. But we talk regularly, online or through texts. She always bugs me about moving in with her.”

“Well, now you can tell her you found a flat at least,” Sherlock pointed out.

John laughed. “That’s true, isn’t it? I’m still trying to get used to that thought. I don’t have much beyond clothes to move, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock smirked. “And you think I have too much stuff. Somehow, I think that we’ll get along just fine.”

John shrugged. “The whole thing about opposites attracting has been mostly false in my life, just to let you know.”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “I like you. I think we’ll get along.”

John smiled in response.

* * *

The next morning, John woke up in his little flat alone for the last time. He walked to the chest he had moved in with and packed everything he could into it. Upon looking around, the only thing that was left outside the chest, was his mug, which he decided he wanted to carry himself so it wouldn’t get broken. He put the mug on top of the chest and lifted it up, carrying it out of the flat and onto the street, where he called for a taxi on his phone. It beat hailing one.

John sat down on top of his chest while he waited, and flipped his phone over and over in his hands. Should he text Sherlock to say he was waiting for a cab? He had told the younger man last night that he would be over today with all of his stuff, no doubt Sherlock would be expecting him, but would this be too early for the man to be up? Surely if he didn’t get much sleep when he finally slept he would crash for hours. Did Sherlock have sleeping habits similar to his eating habits? John hoped not.

The taxi pulled to the kerb, and John stood up. The cabbie got out and offered to help John with putting the chest in the trunk. John accepted with a nod and when the chest was put in, he turned to the cab driver. “Er, you’re not a serial killer, are you?”

The cabbie laughed. “No, sir. There’s not much money in that nowadays.”

“No, I imagine there isn’t,” John chuckled. “You just never know who’s going to be driving you, you know?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Because all my mates drive me around, and all my mates are also cab drivers.”

John chuckled and closed the trunk. “I suppose we shouldn’t just be standing out here, you probably have places to go.”

“So do you, I assume, since you called for a cab,” the cabbie pointed out. “But yeah, I might get called for another passenger during our trip, and I wouldn’t want to make them wait, because that gets docked from my pay.”

John nodded. “Okay. Maybe once we get in the car we could continue our conversation, and I could maybe…get your number?”

The cabbie laughed and opened the driver’s side door. “Cheeky,” she said. “You’ll have to earn it if you want it.”

“Oh?” John asked. “And how would I do that?”

“By giving me a good conversation in the cab and keeping up this cutesy look you have going on,” the cabbie said, waving a finger up and down John’s body.

John laughed and got in the cab. “So, anything you’d like to talk about on the drive? I’ll see if I can add anything, though being in a war for several years may have left me a bit behind when it comes to pop culture.”

“You served long, then?” the cabbie asked as she got in and started the cab.

John nodded. “Several years, like I said. They started to blur together, and I’m still readjusting to how time passes without danger around every corner.”

The cabbie whistled. “Wow. Thank you. I can’t imagine doing something like that.”

“It certainly takes some getting used to, to be sure,” John said lightly. “But it paid my way through Uni, and I got to save lives on top of that, so I was all too eager to take my chance.”

“Saving lives, huh? What’d you study at Uni?”

“Er, anatomy. Then I went to med school. I’m a doctor.”

“Oh, a soldier and a doctor? Bit of an overachiever, when it comes to saving lives if you ask me.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, I guess, but for me it’s what I’ve always felt I was meant to do.”

“I like you,” the cabbie said. “You definitely get my number.”

* * *

John walked up the stairs with some difficulty, the chest he was holding blocking his vision considerably. He stopped at the top of the stairs to 221B to catch his breath, and found Sherlock scrutinizing him. The man turned back to his laptop, but not before saying, “The cabbie is in a serious relationship, looking for some fun while her boyfriend is in his final year of Uni abroad.”

“Er…” John turned, and put down the chest. He burst out in laughter. “Right. Right, thanks. Thanks for the tip.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You just seemed like the type to appreciate monogamy.”

“Yeah…” John said, picking up the chest and preparing to battle the next flight of stairs. “Yeah.”


End file.
